


Yule Ball(s)

by MaisieBee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Ron is Ginny's date), (and Ron's), ALL the tags, Blow Jobs, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Closet Sex, Cupboard Sex, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Eventual Relationships, Fluff and Smut, Gay Ron Weasley, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter AU, Idk but they enjoy themselves, M/M, Male Slash, Mean Harry Potter, Not Canon Compliant, Rare Pairings, Ron is a switch, Sibling Bonding, Smut, Tags Are Hard, Viktor can handle his balls, Viktor is kind of a power bottom??, Yule Ball (Harry Potter), at all, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 01:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaisieBee/pseuds/MaisieBee
Summary: Ron Weasley is stuck taking his little sister as his Yule Ball date. Meanwhile, Quidditch has taught Viktor Krum how to handle more than one set of balls.Based on a pairing suggestion from my sister.





	Yule Ball(s)

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in an AU where Ron is eighteen (and in his last year) during Goblet of Fire. Harry is fifteen and ended up falling in with Malfoy’s crew because, well, Harry wouldn’t be Harry if it wasn’t for Ron, let’s be totally honest here. The age change is crucial only because A) the age of consent is not a suggestion and B) I wanted to have some fun and make Ron more of a loner. 
> 
> Originally, this story was written as the third and final Quickie by me for the Potterotica Podcast, where I aimed to write a story based on each of the hosts' favorite HP characters. However, after a certain pair of "Bros" (and their sister, Dot) decided that three people reading Harry Potter erotica was a bad thing, the pod had to make necessary changes in order to survive. This story is unlikely to be read on the newly rechristened Fangasm Podcast*, so it is being posted here for your viewing pleasure! I hope you enjoy, and lots of love and success to Danny, Lyndsay, and Allie of Fangasm. Thanks for giving me a place to spread my sexy (legs) wings. 
> 
> *It's still as great as ever. Back episodes are still available to listen on their website, fangasmpodcast.com, and you can get new episodes every Tuesday where ever you get your podcasts.

Ron Weasley often wondered what would have happened if he’d been born three years younger. 

It was jealousy, he knew. Standing in front of the mirror and struggling to tie the ridiculous maroon bow tie of his borrowed dress-robes, found in the back of one of his older brother’s wardrobe, he wondered if he would have had a proper date for the Yule Ball if he’d been young enough to be a friend of the boy who lived. Harry Potter and his best friend, the slick but annoyingly perfect Draco Malfoy, ruled Hogwarts and had been swarmed with dates for the Ball, especially after Potter’s name had flown from the Triwizard cup. It was so unfair for him to be slathered with so much glory. And if that wasn’t enough, the Gryffindor and Slytherin friendship was extraordinary and reminded Ron every single day of how few friends he had managed to make at school, even in his own house. He was just a natural loner. Or loser. 

Ron took a moment to steady his nerves before finally tying his tie successfully. He was glad he had at least managed to do a hair-styling charm, although the effect on both his ginger mustache and hair was a good deal trendier than he liked. He smoothed a hair that was not out of place and knew he couldn’t delay any longer. His little sister, Ginny, who was fifteen and nearly catatonic with excitement about the Yule Ball, was waiting. 

“God, you take longer than I do to get ready,” she complained when he finally appeared, but her grin robbed her words of any acid.  
Ron offered her his arm. “You look smashing, Gin,” he said, and it was true. She wore a blue cocktail dress from Tonks, a family friend, that she’d managed to fancy up with some dye spells and a little bit of old-fashioned alteration. Honestly, the two of them looked more like twins then their brothers, actual twins, Fred and George, who were in Potter and Malfoy’s year and, to Ron’s delight, shunned the pair with as much pride as the Weasleys could have given that even their best were still hand-me-downs. 

“I’m sorry you had to take me,” Ginny whispered as they walked with the other pairs of fashionably-late students down the moving staircases to the Great Hall. There seemed an extra bit of sparkle to the whole place; the golden frames of the paintings glinted in the soft lighting that came not just from the usual wall sconces, now polished to perfection, but also from floating colorful paper lanterns. The lanterns bobbed playfully around the students, almost setting one student’s ridiculously long, scalloped sleeves on fire as he reached up to bat it away from his date’s hair. 

“Don’t be,” Ron assured, his voice hushed. “I wouldn’t want to take anyone else.”

Ginny gave his arm a squeeze in acknowledgment of the false compliment, or perhaps it was in response to the sight before them: the Great Hall had been entirely transformed, the splendor bleeding out into the entrance hall. From long and shadowy castle to shimmering ballroom, covered in streamers that dripped glitter and changed color to compliment the outfits of whoever was closest. A small stage was set up on the dais where the teachers usually ate, and a mosh pit had already began to form in anticipation of the Weird Sisters performance. The babble of voices and the soft sound of the enchanted orchestra, which played from an unlit fireplace, was both too much to stand and incredibly lovely at the same time. Judging by the way she was shaking, Ginny was trying as best she could to contain her emotions. 

She clung to his arm, fingers digging into his sleeve, and breathed, “It’s gorgeous.” Her eyes caught sight of the mosh pit and a few of her fifth-year friends, and then turned on to her older brother pleadingly.

He nudged her with an elbow. “Go, have fun. I’ll be fine without you,” he added hotly when she gave him a skeptical glance. “I’m good, Ginny. Really.” 

Finally, his little sister disentangled herself from him and bounced off as best she could in a floor-length dress.

Ron made his way to the banquet table situated at the side of the room and laden with food, weaving around couples and gaggles of friends, part of him wishing he knew any of them well enough to join in the conversation. Well, if he couldn’t enjoy himself, he could at least get a decent snack. The finger food was piled high on golden trays, piping hot and never-ending, and the punch bowls sparkled in rich jewel-tones; one in particular fizzed enticingly. As he filled a crystal goblet with a thick blue drink, there was a commotion at the giant doors that immediately drew both his attention and his disdain.

Potter and Malfoy had arrived.

The two of them could have been gemini twins — one dark and one light, two side of the same coin that was slick with an oily combination of pride and broom-salesman suavity. They were well-dressed in classy new dress-robes and each had a girl hanging off their arm, Malfoy had Pansy Parkinson, a dark-haired, smirking Slytherin girl, and Potter had Ravenclaw beauty Cho Chang. She was a fifth year and she’d gone with him? 

“What pricks,” he hissed into his goblet as he took a long swig of what turned out to be blue pumpkin juice, trying to clear the foul taste that had risen up upon seeing the pair.

“I agree.”

Ron nearly choked. He spun and found himself looking directly at the rugged chin of the Triwizard champion for Durmstrang and Quidditch’s golden boy, Viktor Krum, who stood at his elbow, filling his own goblet up with pumpkin juice. Krum was impossibly tall, impressively muscular, and had a crooked nose from being smashed in the face by a bludger. They were the same age, but there was something in the twist of his wrist as he ladled out his drink or in the hard set of his shoulders that made the other boy seemed so much more in possession of his adulthood than Ron. Additionally, he wore a set of royal blue dress-robes that complimented his build in a way that showed he knew what good tailoring was. 

“Wot?” Ron asked stupidly, immediately regretting the word as it came from his mouth. This was why his teachers all thought he was an idiot.

Viktor Krum, however, shot him a half-smile from under his thick dark brows. “I agree with you,” he said softly in his accent, heavy but melodic like the beating of a drum. “Potter seems like a prick. He is spoiled by his money and his friends.” 

“Yeah! He’s not the only pureblood here,” Ron agreed vehemently, then felt his cheeks flush as he amended, “N-not that there’s anything wrong with being Muggleborn, I mean, but I’m just saying that he acts like he’s all perfect and magical and he’s not the only pureblood at Hogwarts, I mean. . .” he trailed off awkwardly and bit his tongue. Why was he putting his foot in his mouth? Worse still, Ron found himself blurting out, “I’m a big fan, Krum. That dive you did in the World Cup was flawless. Even if Bulgaria didn’t win, you should have gotten a trophy for that, mate! I hope they make that into posters. I’d buy one.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up! What was wrong with him?! He couldn’t seem to stop blabbering and, horrifyingly, Krum’s soulful eyes only got more amused the longer Ron talked.

“You’re a legend,” Ron finished, wondering what was in the pumpkin juice. Veristaserem? “Now even more that you’re a Triwizard champion.”

There, something changed in Krum’s expression. “Ah, da, the tournament,” he said with a grimace. 

“You alright?”

Krum swirled the last of his drink around in his goblet, the chunky glassware looking almost delicate in his large hands. Ron told himself to stop staring down at them, but it was either looking there or further down to the hip that Krum had rested against the table while they talked and he knew that would be far less subtle. Krum finally admitted, “It is just that the tournament brings more. . .scrutiny, I think the word is, to everything.” He gave a lopsided shrug. Ron knew those shrugs. They betrayed embarrassment. “You know? It is hard to do things when you worry that it will end up in one of the newspapers.”

“Oh,” Ron said softly. “That’s bloody rough.”

He shrugged. “I hope it will die down. I am not a very interesting person.”

This lit something in Ron’s gut. He almost exploded, “But you’re a Quidditch marvel! You’re playing for a professional team at eighteen! You’re one of the most respected players in the league. How can you say you’re not interesting? You’re bloody brilliant. You must have had girls swarming all over you to take them as dates.” 

Krum let out a laugh that was surprisingly youthful. “You flatter me. I should say, I do not like the sound of my own voice. Not like Potter, or even Diggary. I do not talk to reporters.” 

The laugh was infectious. It pulled a grin and a punch on the arm from Ron. He exclaimed, “And good on you!”

Krum was about to say something else when deafening cheers and screaming erupted around them as the Weird Sisters appeared. There was the shriek of feedback from a microphone and then an ear-splitting, crunching guitar riff. Krum swallowed the last of his drink and grabbed Ron’s elbow. He leaned in close to be heard above the noise and almost shouted:

“Do you want to dance?”

The sudden turn made Ron gape, then quickly shut his mouth. Instead of answering, he found himself shouting back, “Don’t you have a date, Krum?”

Krum shook his head. “No. Do you?”

“My sister.”

A smile lit up Krum’s gruff face. “Then it should not be a problem for you to dance with me. And you should call me Viktor,” he added.

Ron nodded, almost afraid his head would break off his neck for the ferocity with which he did it. Viktor led the way, cutting a path into the crowd. The closer they got to the stage, the more Ron’s entire body seemed to vibrate. He was jostled back and forth by those around him when they found a spot, and eventually he started to sway along to the music, finding the disjointed rhythm of the crowd. Viktor didn’t quite, tucking himself up into as small a space as possible, which was impossible for someone as unmissable as him. He ended up slightly behind Ron, pressed close due to the crowd. The rich fabric of his dressrobes tickled the back of Ron’s hand and he could feel the other boy’s breath hot on his neck.

Don’t get weird, don’t get weird, Ron silently willed himself. He was probably just being nice. . .

“I never asked your name,” Viktor shouted suddenly in his ear. “That was very rude of me.”

“I-it’s Ron Weasley.”

There was warmth in Viktor’s voice as he murmured in his ear, “I’m glad to have met you, Ron Weasley.”

***

There was nothing particularly magical about the broom closet Ron found himself in mere hours later except that he had dragged Viktor Krum along to share it. 

The dimness was even more stifling than the oppressive smell of dust and damp, but the effect of the glittering castle made it feel scandalous and tinged with red around the edges. Before the door was even shut and locked with a wave of Viktor’s wand, there was a mouth hot on Ron’s neck and hands in his hair and a shelf pressing against the small of his back. Viktor’s mouth roved, yanking at Ron’s unbuttoned collar to access the protruding collar bones beneath them, his breaths coming in hazy, humid gasps against Ron’s pale, freckled skin. He pressed closer to his and Ron felt something hard brush his thigh.

“Is that a broomstick in your dress robes or are you just happy to see me?” Ron couldn’t help but say. He would have regretted it except that it drew a low laugh from the other boy.

“Why not both?” Viktor murmured.

The Quidditch player’s lips were soft but eager, nipping at the thin skin over the other boy’s collarbones as he came to them and dancing into the v-shaped dip between them, the scruff of his stubble itching against him.

A little moan escaped Ron’s lips, a noise he’d never made out loud. When Viktor’s eyes lifted to investigate, Ron wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled him close, kissing him until their teeth connected messily. Viktor swore in Bulgarian and forced Ron’s chin up, attacking the space under his jaw with practiced kisses. 

“I like you like this,” Viktor said against Ron’s throat, his teeth grazing his Adam’s apple.

“Like what?”

“Relaxed. You are very witty.”

Ron snorted. He wasn’t witty. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He did. Viktor’s tongue probed Ron’s lips and were granted permission to enter, the lingering, sharp taste of pumpkin juice mingling with the taste of their laughs. Suddenly, a thought hit Ron so hard it almost made him throw up. Dizzily, he put a palm flat on Viktor’s chest and pushed him slightly back, his arms trembling. Viktor’s eyebrows drew down.

“What is wrong?” he asked, a thumb grazing Ron’s cheek as he scrutinized his face. “Do you want to stop?”

“I just thought. . .what if they notice we’re missing?” Ron whispered. “I mean, if this ends up in the Prophet?” His stomach gave a twitch and a sharp tug like when he traveled by Portkey to think of that foul Rita Skeeter gleefully penning an article about the famous Bulgarian Quidditch player being caught with a nobody in a Hogwarts broom cupboard. 

Viktor took Ron’s face tenderly into his hands. “We can stop if you want to. We can go back to the Ball.”

Something about the way he said that — with such care and concern — made Ron close the gap with a soft kiss. His anxiety transformed into a sheer determination that flowed through his veins like a forest fire, consuming his inhibitions, burning all doubt to cinders. “Let’s make this worth writing about,” he growled uncharacteristically. Then he grabbed fistfulls of Viktor’s lapels and spun him around, pinning him against the shelf with a kiss so fierce it should have singed them both with the fire of it. Letting his hands find their way to the hem of Viktor’s dress shirt, they pressed cold against his abs. The other boy let out a small gasp as they went lower. Buttons came undone, wayward hands dipped under one waistband, then a second, and came to rest on the warm, hard cock that resided there. 

Viktor’s inhale was sharp but shaky as Ron’s fingers played over his skin, stroking the length with a teasing touch. He swore in Bulgarian again, long and drawn out and full of gorgeous guttural sounds that made his own trousers begin to feel too tight. Ron ran his hands over the length as best he could in the confines of Viktor’s pants, but he wanted more. 

“Take them off,” Ron ordered, his voice barely over a whisper.

Viktor was only too happy to oblige.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Viktor had a big cock that was eagerly ready to respond however Ron wanted it to, but Ron still inhaled sharply when he finally laid eyes on it. Ron wrapped his hands around the thick length and stroked the underside with teasing, light touches. 

Viktor groaned and his voice was husky as he said, “Turn around.”

Ron turned his back and felt electricity crackle on his skin as Viktor traced the shapes of his shoulder blades through his shirt, the fabric rustling softly against his fingertips. He followed the ridged of Ron’s spine down and spread his hands around his hips, gripping them tightly and pulling him back against his chest. The ridge of his cock, large and hard, pressed between Ron’s buttocks. The heat of him was enough to make his own length throb in response. Then Viktor’s hands came forward from behind and began to trace the outline of Ron’s cock through his trousers. He suddenly grabbed him and Ron gasped. Before he knew it, Viktor was working his trousers down his legs. He seemed to pulse as their skin touched, bare, warm, hard in all the right places.

Quidditch couldn’t have been the only thing that taught Viktor how to handle balls, because the way his hands played over Ron’s erect cock and sensitive testicles was pure magic. He seemed to know how to move things to elicit the reaction he looked for. While his mouth put marks on Ron’s neck, his fingers grew wet with precum and stroked designs into the skin on his shaft. When his pleasure built so much he couldn’t control himself, Ron pushed back against Viktor’s cock, feeling the tip of it press against his scrotum, grinding against his hard length as he came in a blinding flash of pleasure and sensation and hands holding his body as he rode his release to the end.

They stayed there for a moment, Viktor continuing to stroke him softly and sensually, murmuring in his ear in Bulgarian, until Ron turned around and dropped to one knee, planting a kiss just below Viktor’s belly button, then another further down, then another on his shaft, and then roughly dragging his tongue down to the head of his cock. The saltiness of Viktor was sexy; the fact he was squirming under Ron’s caresses was even more so. He took him into his mouth suddenly and then just as suddenly backed off. Then he did it again and again until Viktor began letting out small, breathy gasps, his dick warm and wet. Ron kissed down the shaft again, swirling his moistened fingers along the seam of his balls, pressing up under them, and took the head of his cock in just enough to tongue playfully at the sensitive slit. 

“Ron—!” But Viktor cut himself off with a fistful of elegant sleeve in his mouth to muffle his cries as he came. Ron swallowed the bitter flood that came with the cry with only a mild grimace. When Viktor recovered his voice enough to speak, he said, “You didn’t have to do that. But I did like it.”

“Good,” Ron said, and aimed to go back down on him again when Viktor grabbed his face and said:

“Come back up here.” 

So Ron’s knee gave a twinge of protest but he stood. Viktor pulled him against his chest, one hand engulfing the back of Ron’s head as Ron pressed his lips to the side of Viktor’s neck. He wrapped a leg around Viktor’s waist and pressed against him again, the shockwaves of their previous orgasms sending spasms of pleasure through them both as he did so. When the shudder had passed through Viktor, when his hands untangles themselves from Ron’s hair, when there wasn’t an inch of their mouths that they both didn’t know, Ron pulled back and said:

“This was amazing.”

Viktor’s mouth tugged into a grin. “It was,” he admitted.

“Should we get back to the ball?”

“Probably.”

“Do you think they’ve missed us yet?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Ron licked his lips. “Er, do you want to do this again sometime?”

Viktor’s grin could have split his face in two. “Yes, I would.”

***

Ron was having a really bad day and it was only lunch time. Double potions with Slytherin first thing in the morning — meaning having to deal with Professor Snape, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy all at once — followed by nearly getting his hand bitten off in Care of Magical Creatures, and finally Ginny still pestering him about where he had gone during the Yule Ball. 

“That was a week ago, Ginny. Give it a rest,” he said, sighing heavily as he shoved a roll, whole, into his mouth. The stress was beginning to get to him and the only thing he wanted to do was have one meal in peace. But the Great Hall could not have been chattier today. About the Ball, about the Tournament, about anything they could think to talk about. . .the other students talked and laughed and were, in general, loud and obnoxious. As usual, Ron sat with his siblings and kept his head down as much as possible. Best to keep a low profile, especially since he and Viktor had began walking around the castle after dinners. It was nice, those walks. They were lowkey but the highlight of Ron’s evenings. They would walk down to the Black Lake and back, talking about their families and their classes and occasionally finding time to snog behind a tree when no one else was around. Surprising Quidditch rarely came up. They were too busy talking about their other interests — Viktor was baffled by Wizard Chess but happy to listen to Ron talk about it for ages, knowing he would soon be able to show Ron the incredible reconstructions of buildings and objects Viktor loved to fold from parchment. Who knew such large hands could be so precise and nimble? The memory of their talks warmed Ron right through, even more than the hot stew that was being served for lunch. 

Then George nudged him in the ribs.

“God, what now?”

His little brother jerked his chin in the direction over Ron’s shoulder.

Ron dusted off his hands and turned around, half-expecting to see Minerva McGonagall, Gryffindor’s head of house, who would no doubt have some words for him about Fred and George’s antics. They may have only been forth years, but they had managed to get into more trouble — and triumph — than most students got into during their whole time at Hogwarts. To his surprise, he found Viktor Krum, wearing his usual red Durmstrang uniform and carrying. . .was that a bouquet of flowers?

“Hello,” Viktor said and smiled bashfully. “I thought you might like these.” He held out the bouquet, which was constructed of a bunch of multi-colored parchment flowers charmed to more closely resemble their naturally-occurring counterparts. A small paper bee buzzed around them lazily. “I made them,” he explained, unnecessarily.

Ron took them, bewildered. He felt his cheeks flush hot. The flowers were beautiful, a display of both craftiness and adeptness at charms. He had never in his life received anything nicer. He pulled his gaze up to Viktor’s face. “Thanks,” he said. “They’re, er, beautiful.”

“You’re welcome.” Viktor rubbed his neck. “Will I see you after Muggle History? For a walk?”

“Of course,” he said, aware that all other talk had fallen silent, that all eyes were on them. This would be all around the castle before dinner, he knew. Maybe it would even be in next week’s Prophet: “Quidditch legend Viktor Krum going out with Gryffindor nobody.” That thought should have made him want to dive under the table and never come out, but it didn’t. Instead, he thought of how much he couldn’t wait until that evening, how he would get to hold Viktor Krum’s hand and kiss him goodnight and maybe, just maybe, sneak somewhere private after lights out. So Ron though, Fuck it. Let’s give them something worth writing about.  
He stood, straightening out his robes, and then pulled Viktor into a deep kiss that tasted like stew and possibility. The candle-light reflected in Viktor’s eyes when they broke apart. He reached up and stroked Ron’s cheek.

“See you tonight?” he asked.

“See you tonight,” Ron agreed.


End file.
